cafe 3

My breasts were fully exposed. I felt the cool air from the fan. I remember some of the sounds, a group of men talking and laughing at the other end, dishes clanking in the kitchen. Casey, now explicitly invited by Amanda to partake of me, freely stared and smiled.

Perhaps some other time I would have been more embarrassed, though I don’t know if I’m embarrassed anymore. Perhaps the word is self-conscious. Coming out of the frustrations of this past week and moving into my slave space with Amanda this morning, any modesty I might feel never emerged. I settled in passively to the experience of being a visual feast for this older-not-so-older man Casey. Perhaps I was less self-conscious this Saturday morning because Amanda was handling me, literally so, in a way I had missed for some time. I felt enveloped in her once again, touched by her, and nothing much else mattered. I sat, silent in this sub-space, being shared with this man.

I looked down at my coffee, not an avoidance of Casey’s eyes, but as a permission for him to consume me. It was my consent. I could see myself, the front of my body, naked. As often happens to me, my upper chest was blushing in splotches. My nipples had perked up, as if aware of their release and of being seen in the open. I looked up again at Casey, who with a sweet grin, danced his eyes between my face and my breasts.

I wondered what he thought of us. He knew long ago, from our many visits, that Amanda and I were “together,” and seeing us kiss earlier was not for him a surprise, though I expected it was, for him, always a gift. Previous times, he must have sensed my submission to Amanda, my passivity at her hand and my compliance, and now, as she had undressed me for him without me offering so much as a word of protest or lifting a single finger. But I didn’t know if he had an understanding of our D/s language, a context for what I am, and what I am to her.

I thought of the many times I’d come to the cafe on my own, for coffee and to read and write. I would do so again, I thought, many times more. But now Casey would see me differently. He would imagine me like this, unwrapped. He would visualize my pale tits, under whatever I wore, my areolae pink and puffy, my nipples erect, reaching for touch. I thought it would be a kind of intimacy between strangers. And then, playing it out in my mind, I thought that would be OK.

“She is lovely,” Casey said to Amanda. “True indeed.” Despite the moment of intimacy he was having with me, he spoke to her. Maybe he sensed that was some sort of protocol. Or not. I seem to have that effect on people. I recede in the presence of my Mistress. As it should be.

There must have been some other conversation here. It seems there was, but I don’t remember. Casey was with us again later, but this time, I remember him lingering, talking with Amanda about something, ogling me. But in time, whatever that time was, Amanda ordered us both cappuccinos and another scone for us to share. Then Casey backed away and went to the kitchen.

I thought first that Amanda had forgotten to order scones for us to take home. Then I knew she hadn’t — she was just measuring out reasons for Casey to keep coming back to the booth.

In fact, she and I weren’t anywhere near done. “I want to talk about Jocelyn,” she said.

“I have to confess something.” This had been gnawing at me since Wednesday. “I overheard your conversation with her when I was out of the room making the vodka gimlet. More than that. I listened in.”

“I know you did. I assumed you could hear everything. If I didn’t want you to listen, I would have ordered you otherwise.”

I nodded, relieved.

“Jocelyn triggered you.”

“Yes, she did.” I replied. “But I realize now that’s more my insecurity than anything she did or said.”

“Good for you to know that.” Amanda was climbing back into her inner Mistress and was re-finding that tone with me. “But Jocelyn is a force. She triggers everyone. Or used to.”

“She’s not in the life any more?”

“She had some health issues. She’s better now but doesn’t have the stamina for keeping a slave again. But she loves doing training. Which brings me to my point.”

“You want to send me to her.”

Just then Casey returned with our cappuccinos and scone. “Very hot,” he said to Amanda. “She should be careful not to spill on herself.”

A stranger protecting my bare breasts. He was already taking possession, as men do.

“Thank you,” Amanda answered. “Say, Casey. If you have time for a break, maybe you would want to sit with us. While I play with her. Nothing much, just some touching. Maybe you would like to join in. She would like that a lot.”

Casey thought about it. It was a long five seconds or so. You could see the wheels turning. “I would, indeed…”

If this were fiction, erotica, he would have said yes. But it was real life, a Saturday morning when Casey had a waitress working tables, “his girl” who would come looking for him for something or other. “Been keeping her away from this corner,” he said.

“Thank you,” Amanda said, “very much for the privacy.”

“Rain check?” he asked regretfully, gazing at my breasts one more time, then looking into my eyes.

Sometimes you see a man’s desire for you and it’s about power and urgency. In Casey’s eyes, I saw something more gentle, a tired longing and maybe more the memory of lust than lust itself. I realized that in that place and with this man, I wished myself for him. I nodded then, my granting of a rain check.

Amanda split the scone and eagerly coated each half with the cream and marmalade. We took bites of heaven and sips of nirvana.

Amanda returned to speak of Jocelyn. “So, yes, I’m thinking of sending you to her. I’m not asking you, but I’m asking you.”

“If it makes me better for you.”

“No, no, no, it’s not about that.” Amanda sighed. “Good god, Shae, I don’t want you better. Where did all this self-doubt shit come from? Where did my girl go this week?”

“Don’t know,” I admitted. “But it seems reasonable to assume if you’re sending me to Jocelyn, you want me to learn something, to be better in some way.”

“Shae, I could care less about Jocelyn’s training of you. You don’t need it.”

“Then why send me to her?”

“Because she begged me for you. She was impressed by you — I know, hard to believe, given how useless and worthless you think you are — and she sees you as a top quality slave who doesn’t know an area of training she does know. At one point Jocelyn actually said, ‘please, Amanda, it would mean a lot to me.’”


“That’s why I’m not asking you but I’m asking you. She did something for me once. Now I want to do something for her. And so I’m asking you to do something for me, for her. It’s kind of a slave favor.”

“Of course. Certainly, yes, I will. But you don’t need my permission.”

“I know.”

The morning had been a kaleidoscopic image of our relationship. Amanda as counselor, caretaker, dominatrix, friend, lover. Me as girl lost, sexual object, submissive, slave, friend, lover. We slipped into and between effortlessly all these roles we are to each other, each one of them significant, though all bowing to the center — Amanda as dominant and me as her slave.

Amanda said she wanted, on the way home, to stop at Joanne’s to get some fabric to make various slings for me, such that would be more fashionable. I said I didn’t know she could sew. She said she couldn’t, thought I could. “I don’t know anything about sewing,” I said. We had a laugh. “How hard can it be?” Amanda said. We laughed again.

Casey appeared. He asked if we needed anything more to drink, even as he visually sipped from my breasts. Amanda ordered a half dozen scones to take home, complete with clotted cream and marmalade.

Before we left, I asked Amanda what her other option was.


“The other road. You said I took the road less traveled. That was your plan b. What was the other road, plan a?”

“I kind of expected you to wallow in your stew of self-pity. You surprised me and crawled out of it instead. You made a good choice.”

“But if I hadn’t, what was plan a?”

“I was going to take you into the middle of the cafe, bare your ass and pussy, and spank the daylights out of you in front of everyone.”

“That’s one of my fantasies.”

“Yes, I know. But I wasn’t going to do it in a way that you would want to dream about.”

“Got it.”

2 thoughts on “cafe 3

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